


We Hold These Truths...

by willowoak_walker



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gen, Henry Laurens gets his own warning tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Other, There's a war on, Very poor parenting skill, tags will be added with updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowoak_walker/pseuds/willowoak_walker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on these photosets from tumblr user <a href="http://darkphoenext.tumblr.com/">darkphoenext</a>: <a href="http://darkphoenext.tumblr.com/post/132137072469/hamiltonx-men-crossover-part-one-greatest">Part 1</a> and <a href="http://darkphoenext.tumblr.com/post/132153749039/hamiltonxmcu-crossover-part-two-raise-another">Part 2</a>.</p><p>After the fall of Genosha, George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and the Schuyler sisters make their way to Charleston.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All The Way To London? DAMN.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genosha has fallen, but we live.   
> We live...

Laurens is about done with today. It’s cold, it’s wet, and people keep either hitting on him or screaming insults. The cold cuts in the slits in his coat and bites at the bases of his wings, the drizzle has his feathers wet and bedraggled, and it’s gotten to the point where he’s pretending he doesn’t speak English. It hasn’t been helping.  


So it’s pretty inevitable that he doesn’t respond to the yell behind him. Which doesn’t make Angelica patient with him. He only just processed the fluttery blue blur in time to avoid running into her. He flails desperately.  


“Mon D-u, Angelica,” he sputters, “What the fuck?” The situation is so normal that it takes his mind a moment to catch up with recent events. The end of Angelica’s semester in Paris, her immigration, the fall of Genosha. When it does, he grabs her in a hug that probably hurts.  


“What the fuck yourself, Laurens,” she says into his shoulder, “Do you not listen when people are calling your name? Someone might need you for something.”  


“Yeah, the last four people calling my name needed me for sex or murder,” Laurens says, “I’m _not_ gonna oblige them.”  


“Ms. Schuyler,” someone with a pleasantly deep and commanding voice says from behind them. Laurens turns to look toward them, letting go of Angelica enough to give her a clear field of fire if that turns out be necessary.  


“Sorry, General,” Angelica says, “Been a long time.” Laurens raises his eyebrows and looks at the stranger with new respect. Tall, middle-aged, light brown skin, shaved head, they pass for a genotypical cis-man. The silver sunglasses suggest otherwise, however. “Laurens,” Angelica says, “Let me introduce George Washington, the man who organized the refugees. General, Laurens and I met when I studied abroad in Paris. He’s trustworthy,”  


“A pleasure,” George Washington says, and offers his hand for a shake. Laurens takes it. Washington’s hand trembles despite the firmness of his grip. Exhaustion and stress, Laurens guesses, and doesn’t comment. “I’m sorry, but we may need to prevail upon you for assistance.”  


“Of course,” Laurens says, and turns his hand palm-up. “How many came to Charleston? Mulligan will be able to put people up in relative safety, and I can talk to the Jeffersons. Not that Thomas will be helpful.”  


“Oh, do you still hate him?” Angelica asks amiably from under the shelter of his wing. “I think we’re the only ones who came to Charleston.” Laurens blinks. “We being Peggy, Eliza, Hamilton, Burr, me and the General.” Ah, that makes more sense.  


“So, six,” Laurens says, “I can take you lot,” he gestures down at Angelica, “Unless you want to crash with the Jeffersons. Do, um, Hamilton and Burr, right?” Angelica and Washington both nod. “Do they have visible mutations?”  


Washington raises an eyebrow as Angelica shakes her head. “Nah, they won’t make Mulligan ART any harder than usual.” She laughs at the expression Washington makes in response to that.  


“Good,” Laurens says, “No-one has to stay with the Jeffersons.”  


“We should go get the others,” Angelica says, detaching herself from Laurens’ arm. “We left them in a bar, and Alexander will probably have gotten into an argument by now.”  


“Alexander?” Laurens asks, following Angelica with the ground-eating gait he’d learned in Paris. The only way for a slower person to keep up with Angelica was for her to wait for them, but this made a good compromise between speed and exhaustion.  


“Hamilton!” Angelica yells over her shoulder, and speeds off. Laurens raises an eyebrow at how fast she vanishes. She’s going to burn her clothes at that rate. Washington makes a stifled snorting noise. Laurens glances over his shoulder at him.  


“Hamilton could get into an argument in an empty room,” Washington explains, “In fact, he has. He claimed he was actually arguing with someone who was thinking very loudly half a block away.”  


“Telepath problems,” Laurens says, and laughs. “Shit at shielding?”  


“He’s getting better,” Washington says, with a little twisted half-smile. Laurens makes an acknowledging face, and snaps his fingers.  


“Excuse me, sir, I need to call Mulligan.” Washington nods gracious permission, and Laurens pulls out his phone. 

 

***

 

Laurens hears the argument long before the participants come into view. He’s been listening for the Schuylers. Their voices are distinctive. He can find them even through the white noise of the city. As they came closer he begins to be able to pick out the words.  
“Trans women of color are the single most often murdered demographic in the US, yes,” Peggy is saying. “But I don’t see why should that should be true world-wide.”  


“Right!” Eliza says, “There are places in the world with almost no rape — there must be places where trans women in the local culture are safe. Or at least not so greatly victimized.”  


“A fair point,” someone Laurens doesn’t know concedes in an accent very like Martha’s. Caribbean, his uneducated ears suppose. Martha will know more if there’s more to know. That person is still talking as the group comes into view. “But I see no reason why we can’t suppose a similar rate of violence in, specifically, Britain. The cultural similarities —” This must be Hamilton. They’re in that awkward height-range that’s short for a ‘man’ and tall for a ‘woman’, and the long hair adds to the ambiguity. Washington said ‘he’, though, so Laurens is going with that.  


The Schuylers are all there. Peggy is wearing her usual disguise, a mix of Angelica and Eliza’s features. She’s managed to keep the same apparent age difference with her sisters, even as time passes. Woman is an _artist_. Laurens grins and walks toward them faster. It’s only as the Schuylers stop talking that Laurens notices the last member of the party. A discrete man-passing person almost LaFayette’s height with much the same skin colour, nearly a true black. Laurens supposes this must be Burr.  


Peggy and Eliza laugh and rush him in unison. Laurens has learned how to deal with this, and backwings furiously for balance. He still staggers a few steps.  


“Peggy!” He says, “Eliza!” It’s almost normal for a moment. Excessively exuberant Schuylers using him as an inoffensive jungle gym, Angelica laughing, Eliza bragging about Peggy’s latest martial art accomplishments, Peggy trying to get her to shut up — it could almost be Paris.  


Of course, that is when it starts to rain in earnest.  


“Weather,” Laurens mutters, “Come on, let’s get to Mulligan’s. It’s _dry_ there.”


	2. Never Had A Group Of Friends Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We need all the help we can get...

“You sure?” Washington asks from the hall outside Laurens’ apartment. Laurens looks up from his book, surprised. It’s nearly 9 o’clock, and the refugees had seemed far too exhausted to be interested in much beyond food and sleep when they arrived that afternoon.  


“Yep,” Mulligan said, “I’ve been friends with the kid for three years now, he’s good.” Someone, probably Mulligan, knocks on the door. Laurens opens it, and looks at his visitors in concern. Washington’s hanging back with Lafayette, letting Mulligan and Hamilton take the lead. Hamilton grins at him with the sort of manic tiredness Laurens knows all too well. Mulligan and Lafayette merely look serious. Merely. Ha.  


“Come in,” Laurens says, “But please be quiet, Frances is asleep.”  


“It your week, then?” Mulligan asks, “I thought you had her last week.”  


“I did,” Laurens says, “Martha has a conference. Frances is my daughter,” he adds for the refugee’s benefit — or at least for Washington’s— Hamilton probably has some sense of it already. “She’s coming up on two now.” Laurens leads the way into the main room.  


The Schuylers are already there. They’ve rearranged on the cushions and chairs so that they form a loose circle around the coffee table. Peggy’s in her easy form, and Eliza is sprawled against her tail. Angelica is pacing in twitchy circles behind them. “I’ll make tea,” Laurens says, and hurries into the kitchen. For the first time, he regrets the open plan of his apartment. He can’t give them even the illusion of privacy. And whatever this is, it’s clearly important.  


"Can I help?” Hamilton asks. Laurens jumps with enough violence that he actually hits Hamilton’s face with one wing. Their apologies overlap.  


“Heh,” Laurens says raggedly, “You could pull out the cookies, if you still want to help. They’re—” he trails off. Hamilton’s found the right cabinet already. “Ah, right. Telepath.” The grin Hamilton gives him at that is nearly wry.  


“Sorry,” Hamilton says. Laurens doesn’t believe a word of it.  


“No need,” Laurens says, putting the kettle on, “Mutant and proud. Just don’t go digging. If I need something private, I keep it under shields.” He finds the box of ‘teas’ he keeps especially for when Mulligan’s over. Barbaric tailor. “Not sure how good my shields are, though, I haven’t had anyone to practice against.”  


“I can help you with that,” Hamilton says.  


“I was hoping you would,” Laurens admits, “The only other telepath I’ve met advocates _respectability politics_. I don’t want that in my head.” Hamilton laughs, and leans cockily on the counter in front of Laurens.  


“Why not?” he asks, eyebrows rising.  


“They don’t _fucking_ work,” Laurens says, “Look at MLK, right? Respectability, peaceful protest, millions of followers, got shot by his own damn government. Besides, even if they did work for the,” Hell, Laurens is going to use air quotes and never mind that Lafayette finds it funny, “‘respectable’, they do jack shit for the less ‘respectable’. Who are, incidentally, the more vulnerable groups. Okay, so there’s one respectable mutant. Awesome. Wow. People respect Professor X, right? Doesn’t cut down on the anti-mutant violence on the streets.”  


“Right?” Hamilton interrupts, “Oh, and he’s got an invisible mutation. Visible disability, and if he’d talk disability rights I’d be fucking thrilled, but no, he’s a _mutant_ rights activist. I know turn the other cheek is a religious command for some people—” Laurens cuts him off.  


“But do you know the historical context? It was actually a very specific act! Slapping someone with the back of the hand was an insult to an inferior, slapping someone with the front of the hand was for equals. So you’re inviting them to meet you as an equal if they’ve got something to say—” The kettle whistles.  


“We are continuing this conversation later,” Hamilton informs Laurens, pointing at him sternly. The effect is only slightly spoiled when he picks up the cookies. “After the council.”  


Laurens shakes his head and fills the tea-pot. The tea set only has six cups, but Mulligan prefers his abomination in a mug anyway. Laurens puts the alleged teabag in the mug and pours water on it.  


“The poor child,” Washington is saying, “Having children is exhausting enough when you’re a married adult.” Laurens leans his head against the cupboard and tries to convince himself that Washington isn’t talking about him. It doesn’t work. Mulligan is saying … something … but Laurens can’t hear it through the ringing in his ears. Deep, slow, breaths, the way his therapist is always telling him.  


He decides the tea is sufficiently steeped. Or that he’s done standing around in his kitchen, rather.  


Lafayette leans forward delightedly as Laurens puts the tea-tray on the coffee table. “Is that tea?”  


“And cookies!” Hamilton announces. Laurens rolls his eyes. They aren’t that exciting. Not the right cookies for real tea. The stuff Mulligan likes, now… He hands Mulligan his abomination.  


“Thank you,” Mulligan says, “I know how it offends your British sensibilities to make this for me.” Laurens snorts. He _still_ isn't British. He turns toward Washington.  


“Milk?” he asks. He manages to get through the pouring of tea without any notable trouble, and stands up carefully. His wings stick out a fair way behind him, and he doesn’t want to knock anyone. Else. “I’ll leave you to it.”  


“What?” Peggy and Eliza say in unison.  


“This is some of your — other business, right Mulligan?” Mulligan nods, twisting the string of his teabag. “I’ll leave you to it. It’s not as if I’m not busy with other things—” Oops. The bitterness is probably a little too close to the surface there.  


“Ey,” Hamilton says, from between him and his exit, and _how the hell did he get there?_ “We kinda came over here specially to recruit you, so you can turn down the invitation, but don’t pretend it’s not there.”  


“Please, Laurens,” Mulligan says, and he looks _sober_ when Laurens turns to look at him. “I’d really like to have you in on this.”  

“Yeah,” Angelica says, “We’re gonna want your view.”  


“You’re _practical_ ,” Lafayette says, and Laurens laughs.  


“Only in comparison to you,” he says, because dear heavens. He has never been practical.  


“We need all the help we can get,” Washington says, and okay, _fine_ , Laurens is doing this. He sits down next to the Scuylers on his favorite bench and tries to look as if he’s not upset. Mulligan and Lafayette are looking at him with more worry than he’s seen from them since his father found out about the whole leaving-law-school thing. Peggy puts one hand on his knee. He pats it absently.  


“All right,” Laurens says, “What is this?” He looks up and around, hoping for an explanation. What he gets is Hamilton staring at the tea-tray as if it has personally offended him. “Is something the matter?”  


“No,” Hamilton says. This boy is worse at lying than Thomas Jefferson is at making women like him, which is saying something. Something _is_ most certainly wrong. “Where do you keep your mugs?”  


“In the cabinet to the left of the sink,” Laurens says, the words chasing Hamilton into the kitchen. “What on earth?”  


“Six people with cups, one with a mug, and one with nothing,” Eliza says, “It’s asymmetrical.”  


“Ahh,” Laurens says. He hadn’t considered the gathering as a composition, but now that he has the flaw is obvious. “Well, then.” Washington looks baffled now. “Art makes its demands,” Laurens explains.  


“Oh,” Washington says. He does not seem enlightened.  


“Milk?” Hamilton asks, arriving with the mug. The mug that says ‘My Anaconda Don’t Want None’ in purple letters. _Sigh_.  


“Yes, please,” Laurens says, and Hamilton pours him tea. Laurens takes it, thanks him, and takes a sip. Hamilton looks almost normal now. Balance restored. “Right, then. What is this?”


	3. My First Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And where was Burr in all this?

“And just what,” the General asks as they head back toward Mulligan’s house, “Was the business with the tea?”  


Alexander sighs. “He was going to notice he didn’t have any and feel left out.”  


The General shakes his head. “No, I understand why it was good idea to get him tea. I just don’t understand why he was willing to believe it was because something wasn’t symmetrical.” Huh. Alexander must have missed that.  


Mulligan and Lafayette are doing that best-friend thing where you look at each other and communicate in silence. Something like _Do we tell him?_ passes between them. What exactly they are considering not telling the General is down a layer or two to deep for Alexander to pretend to find it by accident. A given of their lives and friendships.  


“We’re all artists,” Mulligan says, and it’s not what he and Lafayette were thinking about. _Talk less,_ Burr always says when Alexander learns of secrets, _then people won’t know what you know._ Alexander really doesn’t want to antagonize these people. He keeps his mouth shut.  


“I’m not an artist!” Lafayette protests, a distraction. A running joke. The General snorts. He doesn't press the subject.  


“Music is a form of art,” Mulligan says, boisterous and unconcerned. The tension’s past. Alexander lets himself be swept up in their amiable debate about the definition of ‘artist.’  


He’ll get to the bottom of this. 

***

Burr, naturally, wakes up when Alexander gets back to the room they’re sharing at Mulligan’s.  


“Why,” Burr mutters long-sufferingly, and puts his pillow over his head.  


“They have a statue to Confederate soldiers,” Alexander hisses, “Down by the battery. D’you think I’d get the locals in trouble if I defaced it?”  


“Yes,” Burr says, “Go to _bed,_ Alexander, it’s, like, two in the morning.”  


“Is it?” Alexander says, stripping off his shirt, “I didn’t notice. This place is nothing like home.”  


“No,” Burr says, “Shut _up,_ Alexander.”  


“Okay, okay!” Alexander says as he puts himself into his sleeping bag, “Good night!” Burr makes vague grumbly noises. Alexander cannot wait until Burr gets it. Hiding things from him is really tiring.  


He’s got to commit eventually. 

Right?

***

_Turtle._ Alexander stares up at the ceiling blankly. _Turtle._ “Okay, brain,” he mutters, “Turtle. How about breakfast?” Breakfast requires getting up. Alexander nearly falls over three times trying to get out of the sleeping bag. Burr must never know. _Turtle._ Alexander throws his hands into the air. His pants fall back off. “What the fuck is Turtle?”  


“Where are your meds, Alexander?” Burr asks from the doorway. Alexander jumps and makes a hideous startled noise. Burr puts his face in hands. “Put your pants on, Alexander.”  


Alexander does. Oh, right, where _are_ his meds? He scrabbles in his backpack as Burr walks around the sleeping bag to his own bag.  


“I’m out,” Alexander says, holding up the empty pill bottle. He does not, he promises himself, need to panic. He did alright before he went on the meds, and they aren’t one of the ones you can’t go off of. _Turtle._ But it’s so _much_ better with the meds.  


“Shit,” Burr says, which is pretty much what Alexander is thinking, but without Turtle. “We’ve got to get on that.”  


“Food,” Alexander says. He must actually look pitiful, because Burr sighs, gets up off the bed, and tucks his book under his arm.  


“This way.”  


Mulligan is making pancakes. Alexander stares. _Turtle._  


“I’m in love,” he says.  


“With me?” Mulligan asks, turning around with a plateful of pancakes, “That would be inconvenient.”  


“With your pancakes,” Alexander says.  


“Ah!” Mulligan says, and hands him the plate, “Now, that pleases me greatly.” Alexander takes the plate, and turns toward the kitchen table. Burr is being exasperated in his corner of the room. Oh, right, politeness.  


“Thank you,” Alexander says. “Thank you a _lot._ ” Mulligan laughs. Laughs and thinks ‘Turtle’ smugly. “Turtle!” Alexander says. Everyone is surprised.  


“Where are you getting ‘Turtle’?” Burr asks. Alexander points at Mulligan. His mouth is full.  


“Don’t tell Laurens,” Mulligan says, “It’s a surprise.”  


“Turtle?” Burr says, which, point. “Turtle is a surprise?”  


“I’m giving Frances a stuffed toy, and I’m pretty sure it’s actually a turtle this time. Last time it was a tortoise.” Mulligan shakes his head sadly. Alexander is just wondering if he has an excuse for knowing who Frances is when Mulligan remembers Burr doesn’t. “Frances is Laurens’ daughter. She’s adorable.”  


“Oh,” Burr says, “I thought it was just that Alex is off his meds.” Which, again, point. It’s much easier to shake inherited echolalia when Alexander is _on_ his meds.  


“You got a prescription?” Mulligan asks, leaving the pancakes to look at Alexander in concern. Alexander nods and pulls the bottle out of his pocket. Mulligan takes it, looks at the label, and nods. “Not restricted or addictive. No problem.”  


“Pancakes,” Burr points out. Mulligan makes a noise, and runs to rescue them. He leaves the bottle on the table, where anyone can see it. Alexander pockets it again. The General might walk in at any moment.

***

The General sleeps till eleven. By ten even Burr is getting concerned. Not that Alexander expected the General to wake up full of vim and vigor at seven, not after the week they’ve had, but he never sleeps past nine. It gives Mulligan a chance to call Alexander’s prescription in, at least. 

Apparently he has a friend in the Planned Parenthood in town who is pro-mutant safety and used to Mulligan having refugees stopping with him.

“Where else can the southern kids go?” Mulligan asks, rhetorically, “I’m often the closest thing to a safe place they’ve heard of. Publicity, yo. Being a famous person in the fashion world has its advantages.” Alexander hadn’t thought of that. But it explains why Laurens was just so casually sure that Mulligan would have space for them. 

“That’s kind of you,” Burr says. Mulligan smiles.

“I’m lucky. I like people.” He hands Alexander a sleeve. Well, a probably sleeve. “Hold that for me, please. This is trying to work for fur.”

Naturally the General finds them like that, half buried in fabric, with Mulligan’s mouth full of pins, and Burr taking pictures of the absurdity. 

“Hamilton,” he says, “What are you doing?” Alexander isn't even doing anything wrong this time!


	4. A Lot Of Brains

Washington calms down considerably when Mulligan and Burr tell him Hamilton hadn't been messing around. Mulligan finds this outburst concerning all the same. Hamilton seems to have bounced back fine, but ...

Anyway, Mulligan gets Washington fed, finds all of them clean clothes, and sets Burr up on the living room computer where he can 'catch up on things.' Washington, being older and more print-oriented, takes the newspaper. Hamilton follows Mulligan around like a very talkative puppy, apparently unwilling or unable to settle down. By 11:49, Mulligan thinks he can leave the house in relative safety.

"I'm going grocery shopping," he tells Hamilton, "I'll be stopping by the pharmacy while I'm out. Do you want to come?"

Hamilton nods exuberantly. "Yes!" Then, appearing to remember rules of politeness he doesn't fully understand, "If I won't be a bother."

Mulligan laughs, picking up his grocery bags. "Not at all! I appreciate the company. I am very very people-oriented," he glances down at Hamilton, smiling wryly, "And people tend to get tired."

Hamilton laughs a little, himself. "I know the feeling." They get out the door without incident at 11:57.

Mulligan spends the 123 minutes it takes them to finish shopping explaining Charleston's parts in the various rebellions, except when Hamilton jumps to modern politics. It takes Mulligan 18 minutes to work out that Hamilton's predicting long-term ramifications of the events of the wars. He's only right about half the time, but a lot has happened since the 1770s, or even the 1860s.

"So Elias Frost's plan to start a battalion of slaves from captured Royalist plantations would probably have prevented the capture of Charleston," Hamilton says, "If he'd been able to get it passed. Did he keep advocating abolition after the war?"

"Well," Mulligan says, "He couldn't. He was dead. He died of injuries he'd received in battle, allegedly, but some historians suspect it was an assassination."

"Sounds like the sort of person you'd want to assassinate, if you were a slave-holder," Hamilton says. He spots an earthquake bolt in the house they're passing, and becomes distracted. "What's that?"

Mulligan's explanation of the earthquakes is apparently practiced enough that he sounds like a tour-guide - they pick up a cluster of tourists. Hamilton tones his questions down noticeably while they're there. He must know how he sounds to people who can't follow him. Which is probably nearly everybody. It's not an A-to-B-via-kumquat processing method, Mulligan's worked with people who think like that, and that isn't what he's seeing, but it certainly sounds like it to the unpracticed ear.

By the time they get home (amusingly, within seconds of one o'clock), Mulligan's decided that Hamilton will do. He's strange, but that's probably an asset. Yes, he'll do.

***

Mulligan is working peacefully on the X-suit for Beast with Hamilton sitting on the other work-table and reading bits of the news aloud from his laptop when Lafayette charges in at 3:03. They're singing, naturally. Today it's _Red and Black_ from Les Miserable, so Mulligan knows the words. He joins in. Hamilton, interestingly, doesn't. Mulligan finds this slightly concerning, as not joining in with _Red and Black_ tends to correlate with a very conservative upbringing or significant anxiety. But perhaps it's only that Hamilton isn't American.

Lafayette comes into the workroom at "Have you asked of yourselves what's the price you might pay?" They stutter to a stop, and Mulligan takes a deep, slow breath in the sudden silence. 

"I did, you know," Mulligan says, watching Lafayette hug Frances' turtle. "I thought I knew the answer." Lafayette nods.

"You weren't the people who needed to be asking yourselves that," Hamilton spits, jumping off the table. "Our _heroes_ should have been asking themselves that. Should have been asking themselves what price their little _competition_ might have. What it might have cost the people who look to them."

"The stakes they play with -" Mulligan sticks in. Hamilton turns to meet his eyes, mesmerizing in his intensity. He nods.

"Exactly. They seem to have forgotten that they play with lives, now, not merely egos. With hundreds of thousands of lives."

"With the lives of children yet unborn," Lafayette says. Hamilton nods to them.

"If Magneto _was_ planning what Xavier claims, with the fate of the planet. There are no good ways for that to end," Hamilton says, "You conquer the world, you have to run it and everyone hates you. You fail, everyone hates you anyway, and all your friends are dead." The tension around Hamilton's eyes deepens for a moment. The UN takeover _had_ had casualties. 

"Do you think he was right, then?" Mulligan wouldn't have pegged Hamilton for an X-ist. Quite the contrary.

"That Magneto was plotting conquest? Probably. It's consistent with his character." Hamilton snorts, wry. 

"What should have Xavier done, then," Lafayette asks, "If Magneto really was -" They wave a hand vaguely.

"Talked to the rest of us!" Hamilton says. He's thought about this. "He has allies in Genosha, always has. He may have burned bridges with Mystique, but we're a _nation_ , not just the clique. He could have brought it in. Taken it up with the General, with the lower-level government, even. It could have been an internal matter."

"Mutants defending the world from mutants," Mulligan says, "That's practically his team's _motto._ " He forgets, sometimes, that the question isn't as simple as 'X-men or Genosha', but - wait. "Hey, he could have just flown in!"

"Twenty outsiders fight through the Genoshan army?" Lafayette asks.

"They wouldn't have any particular difficulty," General Washington says from the doorway. "Not once Magneto was occupied. It took under four hundred _humans_ to overthrow us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want the characters sharing names with historical figures, so...


	5. If I See It Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a very frank and painful discussion of mental illness, including a history of self-harm and suicide ideation. Additional warning for that concerned friend who doesn't know how to deal with your illness even though they love you.

Laurens is at his table, editing his current project on his laptop. Angelica glances back at her sisters, ensconced in the living room. Eliza raises her eyebrows, and Peggy picks up the sleeping Frances. Frances' room is probably soundproof enough that they won't here anything unless someone yells. Angelica takes a deep breath. This is her job. She's known Laurens' longest. She's the oldest, and the wittiest, and the gossip in Paris is insidious, and it was convenient to seem to date Laurens. And she wasn't going to let him suffer for it. Eliza gives her a thumbs up as they close the door.  
Time to face the music.

"Laurens," she says, and he looks up, smiling one of his inviting smiles. "You're looking well." Not drunk. Not bleeding. Not -- well, he _is_ drawing dismembered birds, but only as anatomical studies.

"Eight months clean today," he says. He turns to face her full on, and there's no mistaking that he knows exactly what she's asking. "The medication's working. I've half-forgotten what it's like to want to kill myself." Angelica's mouth opens without her command. She has nothing to say to Laurens' despair. She never has. "It's alright, Angel," he says. He stands up and walks toward her. The awkwardness of the way he holds his wings only becomes more obvious in motion. They stick out behind him, stiffly. They don't move with his body. Mutant and proud, ha. "I'm doing well." Laurens takes her hands, gently. "You don't need to try to make me get help." Angelica looks up at him. She feels as if she might cry. "I'm already getting help," Laurens says. Angelica sighs and looks down at their feet.

"I'm sorry, Wren," she says. "I - I know you keep saying you're doing better, but the last time I saw you in person-"

"Was in Paris," Laurens says, "When I was doing very badly." He sighs, and lets go of her hands to tug at his hair. "I've been dreading this conversation. Angel, there is nothing I can say to make you feel better. You know depression lies." Angelica nods. "Look," Laurens says, "Watch me. You'll see how much better I am if you watch me for a couple days. Most of my days are good days now."

"I'm glad," Angelica says. She is glad, she is, she _is._ She's still crying.

"Hey," Laurens says, and wipes at her tears, "We can stop talking about this. You go track down your sisters, I'll tidy and send off these finches, and we can go to Mulligan's for dinner. I promise you won't come out of Frances' room to find me playing with the scissors." Laurens' short-term promises are good. He doesn't make them if he doesn't know he can keep them. Angelica nods, wobbly, and goes to find her sisters. She needs a hug.

So does Laurens. But she can't be the one to give him one.

***

Frances is awake. Peggy is lying on her stomach, rolling a ball toward the baby. It's reassuringly normal, healthy. Sane. Frances catches it in pudgy baby hands, laughing. She shoves it back toward Peggy, some sort of half-throw gesture. Peggy catches it and rolls it back toward her. 

"Angelica," Eliza says, getting up from the chair, "Is it bad news?" Angelica shakes her head. She has no idea how to explain Laurens.

"He says he's doing better," she offers, and chokes on the lump in her throat. The rest comes out in a distressing wail, "But that hardly means anything when he used to be so _bad!_ "

"Ah?" Frances says, and stands up. She's almost two now. Clean for eight months, Laurens said, which means eight months ago --  
G-d, Angelica hopes Frances wasn't there. 

"Angelica has had a bad day," Peggy says, "Angelica is sad. Angelica needs a hug." Oh, _boy_ does Angelica need a hug. Frances toddles toward her and holds up her arms.

"Up!" Frances demands. Angelica obliges. Peggy hugs them both. She's shapeshifted, as she sometimes does, into a form more huggable than her default pangolin. Angelica doesn't look, but she knows it's fluffy. Frances is amused by this new toy. Eliza comes round to kiss her forehead, and Angelica is almost, almost alright.

***

Eliza closes the door to Frances' room behind her gently, so as not to disturb the cuddle puddle that's developed. Angelica is -- not the best -- at gentle, and whatever she was so worried about was clearly serious and longstanding. Laurens probably needs a hug at least as much Angelica does. He's at his computer again, in just the same place Eliza saw him last. Now, though, he's crying. Not the kind of crying Eliza's used to. He's just letting the tears run down his face as if they are normal.

Eliza's not going to comment on that. "Laurens," she says instead, "Do you need a hug?"

Laurens looks up at her, startled, and visibly tries to pull himself together. "I'm fine," he says.

"Okay," Eliza says, "You can be fine and still need a hug." Laurens blows his nose and looks at her skeptically. "I don't need you to tell me what's going on. I'm just offering to hug you."

"Kind of impossible," Laurens says, "Much as I appreciate it. The wings go down to my hips."

"Then I offer some other form of friendly and comforting touch," Eliza says, "I'm creative, I'm sure we can figure something out." Laurens snorts. 

"Just a minute." He types for a moment, then clicks decisively. "Sent." He stands up from his stool and looks at her awkwardly. Over the shoulders might work, if he were shorter.

"Stool," Eliza announces, and goes into the bathroom to find the one that Frances uses to reach the sink. She carries it back over to Laurens and sets it down decisively in front of him. He's completely failing to hide his amusement. "Hug." Eliza stands on the stool, drapes her arms around Laurens' shoulders. There isn't as much room above the wings as she'd hoped, but she manages a credible squeeze. Laurens wraps his arms around her and squeezes back. They stand in silence for a long moment. Eliza isn't going to be the one to end this hug.

"She doesn't get it," Laurens mutters into her shoulder. Eliza frees one hand to pet his hair, and murmurs soothingly. "It doesn't - it's not her _job_. She doesn't _need_ to."

"Okay," Eliza says. Some response seems required. "Okay."

"Getting better isn't a one-moment thing. It's not something you _finish_. But it's like she doesn't see it at all! I've been working _so hard_ , and --" Laurens is crying in earnest now. "She can't _do_ it! I have to be _all better_ or _all sick_ , and," he draws a breath that shudders with tears, "I'm just _not_."

"That's okay," Eliza says. She has some familiarity with Angelica's occasional collapses into black and white thinking, "You don't have to be all one way. No-one ever is. It's okay. You can hurt every day and still know that you are better than you were. It's alright."

Laurens pulls his face out of her shoulder and meets her eyes. "Ha," he says, and swipes at his eyes, "Thanks. I really," he takes half a step back, and looks at her from there, "I really needed that." Eliza smiles, and cups his face with one hand.

"What are friends for?"


	6. And Peggy

Peggy is pretty sure that everyone has been crying. She makes a 'fill me in' face at Eliza. Eliza looks from Angelica to Laurens, mouth tight, and shakes her head minutely. Peggy nods. Angelica isn't good for everyone. It's just a pity that one of the people she isn't good for used to be her best friend.

They head out to Mulligan's house in uncomfortable quiet. Angelica and Laurens are not looking at each other in that way that is more attentive than actual looking. They need a distraction.

"Hey," Peggy says, poking Laurens from behind, "How come Frances' nursery is full of turtles?" Laurens laughs. Good.

"Mulligan and LaFayette have this little," he pauses, snapping his fingers vaguely as he hunts for the word, " _Story_ they tell about me and turtles. I got three pictures of a soft-shell turtle in a naturalism magazine when I was sixteen, and they found out a couple years ago. They _insist_ that I like turtles." He shakes his head in mock sadness.

"Do you?" Peggy asks.

"Well, _yes,_ " Laurens says, looking at her oddly. "But most of these things are actually tortoises."

"Okay," Peggy said, "I'll bite - what's the difference?"

"Tortoises," Laurens announced, magically producing a small stone turtle-or-tortoise from his pocket, "Have feet, for starters, and are primarily terrestrial. Tortoises can retract their heads completely in their shells, and are almost exclusively vegetarian. They can't swim for sh--," He pauses, looking embarrassed, "Sorry, Martha asked me to stop swearing so Frances won't pick it up. Tortoises can't swim." He turns the stone animal upside down. "See the feet? This is meant to be a tortoises." Peggy nods. Eliza has dropped back to listen in while Angelica walks ahead with Frances in the stroller. Mulligan's house is on the same street as Laurens', though, so she can't get lost. Knock on wood. 

"Meant to be a tortoise?" Eliza says, raising an eyebrow invitingly. Peggy _still_ hasn't figured that trick out, and she's _literally_ a shapeshifter. You'd think raising one eyebrow would be easier than ceasing to have a tail.

"It's not an accurate representation of any kind of tortoise I know of," Laurens explains. "It might actually be a terrapin."

"A what?" Peggy asks. Angelica's turned the stroller into the next driveway. Mulligan's house looks like a typical freestanding Charleston town house (That is, big and old, with a porch at the right angle to catch the breeze) that someone has been painting bright green. Which isn't that unusual for Charleston, except that there are dolphins.

"A terrapin," Laurens says, and frees Frances from the stroller. She's burbling half-formed words. "Yes, Frances, we will go see Dami Mul. A terrapin is sort of like an amphibious tortoise. They've got feet and hard shells like tortoises, but they're streamlined, so they can swim. They mostly live in or near water."

"Do I detect the turtle lecture?" Mulligan yells joyfully from somewhere in the back of the house. Peggy laughs.

"Who's there?" Lafayette yells in their I'm-Quoting-Hamlet voice, appearing in a doorway. Peggy readies herself.

"Angelica!"

"Peggy!"

"Eliza!"

Lafayette, Mulligan, and Laurens all join in for the crowning, "The Schuyler Sisters!" Being friends with LaFayette gets you a theme tune in the same way that being friends with Mulligan gets you clothes that fit. And have decent _pockets_. Peggy would love Mulligan for that alone.

The General follows Lafayette into the hallway, shaking his head. "Are these the men with which I am to reform Genosha?" _Adults._ He's joking, Peggy's sure, but she joins the yell anyway. 

"WE'RE NOT MEN!


	7. Only One Man

George know better than to say ‘kids these days’ out loud, but he thinks it. Mulligan and Lafayette had joined the Schuylers in their protest, despite being, to all appearances, definitely men. The baby is wailing, upset by the noise. The older children have the grace to look sheepish and wait patiently for Laurens to calm his daughter.  


“Are these the _people_ with which I am to restore Genosha?” George offers when the child has subsided to mere hiccups.  


“Thank you, General,” Eliza Schuyler says. George nods. Eliza has always been the most sensible.  


“Are any of us men?” LaFayette asks idly. George makes a note to ask about pronouns. It’s probably they. It’s usually they. _Sigh._  


"I’ll get back to you on that,” Laurens says, setting Frances down on her own feet. She proceeds to toddle over to Mulligan. Mulligan picks her up, cooing. Small children are a great unifying force.  


“Ami Muh, Ami Muh!” She says, grabbing at Mulligan’s bandana.  


“That’s right, Frances,” Mulligan says happily, “I _am_ your Dami Mul. Does Frances want to see what Dami Mul has for her?”  


“Uh-oh,” Laurens mutters under his breath.  


“Dami Mul?” George asks him. “And why are you concerned?"  


Laurens fusses with the diaper bag and lets the rest of the group pour into the back of the house ahead of him. “Dami is aunt or uncle. And Mul’s presents are usually a little strange. Not _unsafe_ ,” he hastens to assure George, “Just difficult to explain to my father.” George nods. Children's toys can be quite strange. Mm. It must be ... odd ... having to explain your choices as a parent to a parent who doesn't approve of your choice to be one. George shakes the thought off, looking around as the chaos clears. Where had Burr been in all of this?  


Watching from the living room. George meets his eyes for a moment, and walks toward the back of the house beside Laurens.  
His back itches as Burr follows them.

***  


Mulligan bans 'serious topics' at table, which makes dinner almost pleasant. Burr's refusal to commit seems much less sinister when the topic is the Harry Potter house that ... some character from a book they've all read ... belongs in. After all, Eliza stays out of it as well, claiming no interest in the character in question. The boys - hm. Several of the other children make mock horrified faces, but she only laughs. 

Still, the alliances fall out around the table. The Schuylers always together, disagreeing only civilly and with laughter. Lafayette and Laurens each alert to the other, testing Hamilton and Burr, who fight in their usual way, Hamilton with passion, Burr counseling patience. Hamilton rallies the rest of the children in an attempt to persuade Burr of ... something ... (the real meaning of Hufflepuff, was it?). Burr, seeing everyone else in agreement, retires from the field. Hamilton looks momentarily triumphant, then disappointed. The others notice.

Lafayette looks to Angelica, Laurens to Mulligan. Angelica's face tightens briefly, and Lafayette, seeming to draw some meaning from this, looks back to Hamilton and engages him in a lively debate about the appropriate sources of protein. (Hamilton has not finished his beans and rice. This reminds him.)

Mulligan does not drop his boisterous façade to counsel Laurens. Laurens blinks, startled, and turns to feed his daughter. Eliza catches his eye, and they chat amiably about child speech. Peggy joins them, Angelica joins Lafayette and Hamilton. 

Burr and Mulligan throw together a conversation without meaning. Neither misses the crucial point. 

Burr doesn't fit in.

***

“What are we planning to _do_ about it?” Hamilton demands, sharply. George looks up from his book, hoping this isn’t what he thinks it is.  
Hamilton is perching on the back of the sofa, although in deference to Mulligan’s house rules he is not wearing shoes. He has acquired an enormous book from somewhere, but it no longer holds his interest. Instead, he is glaring at Burr.  


“Good question, Alexander,” Burr says, “Perhaps we should take more than 72 hours to think about an answer?” Ah, yes. _This_ is why George keeps Burr around.  


“Politics,” Mulligan mutters, disgusted, and walks out of the room. It’s a strange change from last night, but then, Burr doesn’t know his work.  


“But the more time we take to think about it,” Laurens puts in, “The more time the UN has to consolidate. The riots in the streets are making it clear that the Genoshan public objects to the invasion, but people will have to go back to their lives eventually. We’ve got to get some kind of organization put in place asap, or the media will claim we don’t mind.” Oh, dear, he’s as bad as Hamilton.  


“And how are we putting together an organization big enough to make a difference soon enough to matter?” Burr asks, raising an eyebrow sardonically.  


“We don’t need to,” Peggy Schuyler says. She seldom interrupts the political nonsense, so she has something important to say. “The structure exists, we only need to harness it. We need to get the remnants of the army talking to Angelica’s activists and the immigration offices. We can do that by email. My encryption’s good enough to get us in contact with Forge and Clarity, and then we’ll be running under cover better than most governments.”  


“We need at least one more thing,” Eliza Schuyler says.  


“What?” Burr asks, “Money? Guns? Respect?” He’s not in favor of this. He’s seldom in favor of things that he doesn’t believe can win.  


“A leader,” Eliza says. George resists a sigh as they all look toward him. “Someone people will follow.”  


“General,” Lafayette says. He- they- pause, watching George intently. George sighs.  


“If this is how my country needs me,” he says, “Then this is how I will serve her.” The children cheer, but quietly, not to wake the baby. Burr does not join in.  
This will be fun.


	8. I Swear That I'll Be Around

The General is not happy. Lafayette watches from their corner as Peggy works on Laurens’ spare laptop. The General turns his attention to Frances, who is fascinated by his glasses. The General must have practice with children. He keeps Frances entertained and her hands safely away from his face. Laurens relaxes after only a few moments. His fear that someone will hurt Frances while he isn’t paying attention is calmed by the General’s quiet competence.  
He keeps his eyes on his daughter as he wanders over to Lafayette’s corner anyway. Lafayette grins at him.  


“A pretty picture, no?” They gesture around the room, “The Revolutionaries plot in the last moments before the storm. It would make a lovely painting.” Laurens makes a face at them.

“What am I going to do about Frances?” Lafayette blinks at him, startled.  


“What?”  


“My daughter needs me,” Laurens explains, gesturing in agitation, “My country needs me. My daughter needs my country.” It take Lafayette a moment to parse that last one. Ah. Frances is the child of two mutants with visible mutations. Of course. That she passes now is no guarantee that she always will.  


“Perhaps,” Lafayette offers, “You may serve your country in some …” Ah, but no, Laurens will never step away from danger merely because it is danger. “We _will_ need money and guns, Burr is right.” Burr looks up, raising his eyebrows from his position at the desk.  


“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens says, “But first we must _exist_.”  


“I am sure we can find some relatively safe way for you to serve,” the General says, Laurens’ daughter babbling on his lap. _Merde._  


“No, sir,” Laurens says, almost undisturbed, “Children loose parents to death every day." Lafayette suppresses a wince. _Some of us never had them._ "I just — I _cannot_ let her think I abandoned her while I was _alive_.” The General nods, if not in understanding then in respect.  
Angelica stands up, skirts rustling. She takes Frances and crosses the room to Laurens at a normal speed. It seems agonizingly slow in her. She hands Laurens his daughter.  


“You trust her to Martha and Mulligan. You write her letters, you draw her pictures. You call. You _visit_. Mulligan will step into politics enough for this.” Laurens looks at her. Frances grabs a handful of his hair and pulls.  
Hamilton hisses through his teeth.  


“Enough for what?” Mulligan asks from the doorway. Of course he heard.  


“I’m going to the war,” Laurens says, “And I’m not taking Frances.” Frances starts crying to be put down at the sound of her name. Laurens glanced around the room, and obliges her. She toddles happily toward Peggy. “I was hoping you would—” Laurens swallows, looking away. Lafayette squeezes his shoulder.  


“Of course,” Mulligan says. “That’s not politics, that’s children. You’ll come visit?”  


“You may have to bring me.” Laurens still can’t look at Mulligan.  


“I’ve taken refugees to Genosha,” Mulligan says, smiling. “I know where it is.” There’s a moment silent except for Frances’ demands that Peggy play with her _now._ “It’s 7:23, Laurens.” Laurens sighs, and pulls the stroller out of the corner. “Are you done with politics?” Mulligan asks as Frances decides that she _does not want_ to go to bed.  


“No,” Angelica and Hamilton say at the same time.  


“Sadly,” Burr adds, and Mulligan laughs.  


“I’ll be in my room if you need me,” he says, and leaves. Lafayette follows him upstairs with a complete lack of sneak. Laurens is trying to chivy Frances into her stroller, which should keep everyone occupied enough not to question. Mulligan flops on his bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly.  


“Long day?” Lafayette asks, flopping on top of Mulligan. “I will activate your parasympathetic nervous system and then you will sleep.”  


“You keep learning words from Laurens, your vocabulary will only become more peculiar,” Mulligan remarks, “You could have just said you were going to squish me until I calmed down.” He tugs Lafayette’s hair out of their ponytail. Lafayette lets him. Mulligan never thinks he’s Thomas.  


“I did,” Lafayette says, “Look at me, squishing you.” Mulligan’s laugh bounces them. “What’s the matter, my zucchini?” The endearment makes Mulligan snort. His 15-year head start makes him find the notion a little strange, even still. Kids these days calling their queer-platonic partners rutabagas or what have you. In _his_ day…  
(In his day there weren’t words for him. Lafayette tries not to think too hard about it.)  


“I’m worried about Hamilton,” Mulligan admits. That is _not_ what Lafayette expected. Not after the conversation downstairs. But perhaps Mulligan knew _that_ was coming.  


“Why?”  


“He didn’t sing along,” Mulligan says, which can _not_ be the whole of it. Lafayette raises an eyebrow, propping themselves up in their elbows so that they loom over Mulligan. It’s a neat trick, and they are very fond of it. “I don’t mean about the Schuylers, that’s a thing that takes getting used to. He didn’t sing along with Les Mis, and everyone knows Les Mis.”  


“Ah,” Lafayette says, and flops down again. “You are thinking of those kids last month.”  


“They weren’t that much younger than you,” Mulligan says, teasing. “Yes, those. That one boy was scaring the rest of the group.”  


“When a theatre kid _stops_ singing along, that is one thing. When a stranger does not _start_ singing along, that is another thing. Even if it is _Les Miserables_.” Lafayette shrugs. “How was he supposed to know he was welcome?”  


“Telepath,” Mulligan says. Lafayette must concede that point.  


“Still,” they say, “He is perhaps not in the mood for singing, mm? It is easier for us to pretend normalcy. I think he is doing very well, considering.” Mulligan shakes his head vaguely.  


“You’re getting taller again,” he remarks, attempting to change the subject. Lafayette lets him.  


“You sound like my elderly parent.” Lafayette rolls over to be silly better, “Ah! My poor _enfant_ , all grown up and joining revolutions — ack!” Mulligan hugs them with force enough to shock the breath out of their lungs.  


“Yes,” he says against Lafayette’s shoulder, “Exactly.” _Oh._  


“My friend,” Lafayette says when they get their breath back, “I will be alright.”  


“I _don’t_ count fighting a war as ‘alright’,” Mulligan hisses, “You are _twenty,_ Laf. You may have a healing factor that terrifies anyone trying to kill you, but you — You’re going to have a _hell_ of a case of PTSD.” He sounds on the verge of tears.  


“Ah,” Lafayette says, “That will happen _because_ I go to fight for my freedom, and not otherwise.” They are not safe anywhere, these days, with the Mutant Registration Act and the race issues. Mulligan’s laugh is … not a laugh at all. Lafayette holds him.  
What are qpps for?


	9. More Like A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of death and major injuries.

Alexander is dead again tonight. Gunshot wound this time. Aaron rolls over and looks at the small form curled in the sleeping bag. Alexander’s breathing. He is older when he dies, anyway. 

Aaron isn’t sure why he cares. 

He gets up. The rest of the dream comes back in pieces as he dresses. He doesn’t write it down. He doesn’t need to. He will dream again tomorrow night. Laurens drops from the sky, bleeding, wings folding aimlessly and being blown back by the wind. Mulligan is shoved to his knees by an X-man (Cyclops?). They bluster back and forth in the silence of his dream, and Mulligan screams as his fingers burn away. Lafayette climbs out of an impact crater, skin shredding, drops to their knees and sobs. Angelica blurs, bursts through armies of tanks, shattering them and herself in her speed. Peggy coughs herself to death while Magneto demands … something. Eliza — founds an orphanage? Aaron shakes his head. She was old. 

He didn’t dream of General Washington. He never does, now. 

“Nightmares again?” Alexander mumbles from his sleeping bag. Aaron nods. For all Aaron’s shielding, Alexander catches his emotional tone fairly often. He must not get the images that blaze themselves behind Aaron’s eyes. He would leave if he did. 

“Yes,” Aaron admits, “They happen.” They’ve happened a lot more often since he met Alexander. They go down to breakfast together. Mulligan is making pancakes. He whistles as if nothing happened. As if his claims to be apolitical will protect him. 

A soldier in blue and green shoots Mulligan as he reaches for Laurens’ hand. As if no-one will be jealous that Laurens gets to visit his daughter. Laurens falls from the sky, twitching, his chest burnt away. Aaron’s head is pounding with the visions. 

“Laurens will not be the only one with kids,” he says. A soldier in blue and green weeps over a child’s corpse. “And there will be children displaced by the war.” Alexander’s hand is on his arm. A child cries as a tank rolls past. “We will need to shelter them.” A child huddles in a car as soldiers in blue and green march past. “When we clear some space, we will need to,” Eliza founds an orphanage. “Set up some kind of crèche care.” Eliza founds an orphanage. She is perhaps twenty. 

She is nineteen now. 

Alexander and Mulligan are staring at him. Aaron sits down. The present is real now. 

“That’s brilliant,” Alexander breathes, eyes lighting. Oh no. He’s off again. Alexander in full swing can push for something so hard it becomes impossible. He goes into things without thinking. Without leaving time to think. No vision comes to guide Aaron. This depends on the General. Aaron doesn’t dare hope that it will work. He grabs Alexander’s chin. Turns Alexander’s face toward him. 

“It’s your idea.” 

“What?” Alexander’s baffled. 

“When you tell the General, it’s your idea.” Aaron gave up his chance to impress the General when he chose to save Alexander’s life. Some days he regrets that trade less than others. 

“I can’t lie for shit,” Alexander says. Aaron lets go of his face. It’s true. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying to save hot-headed boys from their delusions of importance. 

“I can,” Mulligan says, “And I will. Eat.” 

“What,” Aaron says. “Why?” 

“Because your body needs food to function,” Mulligan says. He is not actually that obtuse. Aaron stares at him. “It needs saying,” Mulligan says. He shrugs. “Eat your pancakes,” he says, and leaves the kitchen. Aaron watches him go. Last night he had seemed so normal. 

“We’re all mad here,” Alexander says. Aaron had let his shields slip in his shock. He slams them back into place. “Ow,” Alexander says, “Sorry.” He’s rubbing his forehead. Perhaps it really does hurt. “I don’t understand Mulligan either,” he pushes on. He’s never know when to shut up. “I don’t think he thinks about what he thinks about.” 

“What?” Aaron says. That was incomprehensible even for Alexander. 

“Most people,” Alexander says, and stops to think, “Most people think about things that aren’t right in front of them most of the time. You know, planning for the future, regretting the past. Mulligan actually pays attention. To things. Except when he doesn’t.” Aaron looks at him flatly. “I’ll see if I can explain it better later,” Alexander offers, “But it might be a telepath thing. Why do you care?” 

“I don’t,” Aaron says. “You just started talking.” 

“No, I meant about the orphanage.” Aaron doesn’t move his face. Aaron does not hit Alexander. Aaron is going to respond to this calmly. 

“Despite your incessant twittering,” Aaron says. Aaron snarls. He breathes in and calms himself. “I do in fact have opinions. Children should-” his voice breaks. What is the matter with him today? “Should not have to fend for themselves.” Alexander looks at him with that sad-eyed look that Aaron can’t stand. “Otherwise they might end up like you.” Alexander laughs. 

“What, exhausting?” Alexander grins at him, “They might end up like you instead. Responsible.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be pleased by that,” Aaron says, raising an eyebrow. Alexander grins his shit-eating grin. 

“You have your uses.” 

“What, like keeping you out of trouble?” That’s the only reason the General keeps him around. 

Alexander sobers. “Thanks for that, by the way.” He’s quite sincere. Aaron looks away. He can’t bring himself to say ‘You’re welcome’. He musters a sarcastic snort. It’s the best he can do. Alexander, mercifully, drops the subject. Aaron turns his attention back to his neglected pancakes. Alexander, reminded, follows suit. 

He natters about swaying public opinion while they eat. His arm brushes Aaron’s occasionally. He thinks he’s being subtle. Aaron lets him. As long as Alexander is occupied with his sneaky plan to ‘Introduce Burr to Human Contact,’ he isn’t plotting other things. 

Aaron can handle being touched. It certainly is _not_ because Alexander’s plan is working. He’s just never been as aloof as people think.


	10. Make The World Safe And Sound

“Where are we landing?” Peggy looks up from the laptop long enough to wave Hamilton to silence. Hamilton twitches over the map he’s got spread across the table, impatient with his ignorance. Eliza keeps packing first-aid kits.  


“Hammer Bay’s pretty locked down right now,” Peggy says, “Most of the troops in there are US or British, though, so we’re getting pretty good data from Forge’s tapping. Knox has been pulling together police officers and militia from the north of the bay. You know a place called Forge Valley?”  


“Uh,” Hamilton says, searching the map.  


“That’s north of Gersfeld,” Eliza says, “You know, that German village?”  


“Oh, yeah,” Hamilton says, leaning over the map again, “It’s that valley with all the _bitaog_ trees, right? It gets really hot there.”  


“Defensible, though,” Angelica says, depositing another bag of non-perishable food on the pile in Laurens’ kitchen. “Those trees can get you lost real easy.” She buzzes back out, leaving the door to close on its own. Burr catches it and closes it quietly.  


“Are we meeting Knox in Forge Valley, then?” Burr asks.  


“Does our ‘porter know it?” Peggy asks, “It’s not one of the places I remember being on the list.”  


“Nope,” Hamilton says, “Closest place is well within the city. Could try a blind drop with coordinates. Knox got anyone with a GPS?”  


“I’ll ask,” Peggy says, “But they say they’re short of everything.” They’re all silent for a moment, busy with their various tasks. Eliza looks up at a great whirring noise from the direction of the living room. Laurens is coming for a landing on the balcony there. He has to grab the kumquat tree to prevent himself smacking into the closed window. Eliza giggles. Hamilton and Peggy look up, startled, and blink in their remarkably similar ‘what, the world still exists?’ faces. Eliza smiles. Burr raises a sardonic eyebrow as Laurens fights the window open and walks in.  


“Did you want that open?” Laurens curls his lip at him.  


“Ha, ha,” Laurens says, and turns toward Peggy,  “Tell me we aren’t going to have to deal with Clinton, I hate Clinton.”  


“Lee, actually,” Peggy says, “I can’t get in touch with Clinton. And Knox doesn’t have any reliable GPSes. We _really_ don’t want to go in with bad data.” She gets up, leaving the laptop behind.  


“Who’s Lee?” Laurens asks, and hands Eliza a new bag of bandages, “Bought ‘em out. Got some kid’s vitamins, too, for your orphanage.”  


“What?” Eliza stares at him blankly.  


“I guess it’s not an orphanage, really,” Laurens says, and shrugs. His wings move with his shoulders. They are very obvious in this position, but they also look less inconvenient than usual. “Mulligan said you were planning on doing some thing for the kids who got caught up in the war?”  


“Huh,” Eliza says, “I don’t _remember_ saying that, but it’s definitely something that needs doing, so I guess I am.”  


“Why specifically you?” Burr asks. Eliza smiles at him. He hasn’t known them very long at all, really.  


“I’m good with kids,” Eliza says, “And I’m a decent organizer. It won’t be _just_ me, of course.”  


“It never is,” Peggy says, laughing. She swings her tail, hitting it against Hamilton’s legs and making her skirt rustle. “Move, Hamilton, I want a look at this map.” He mutters, but he moves. Peggy rescues his phone as he pulls his notebook across the table. “Thank you.”  


“It won’t be just me because a whole lot of people who never left will have been trying to set things up,” Eliza says. “Someone’s always trying to do important work already. I’m just usually the one who has the resources.”  


“Rich parents,” she choruses with Peggy and Laurens. Burr nods, hands still busy with the cans he’s sorting.  


“Speaking of!” Laurens says, dodging through the piles of miscellaneous things they aren’t done packing to the enormous safe in the corner. “How many of y’all can shoot?”  


“I can,” Burr says, “And so can Hamilton.”  


“Huh?” Hamilton looks up, blinking. He’s filled _another_ page of his notebook since Peggy came to stand with him.  


“You can shoot,” Burr repeats patiently.  


“ _Si,_ ” Hamilton says vaguely and goes back to the map.  


“We’ve all had lessons,” Eliza says, “But Peggy’s the only one who’s gotten good.” Laurens nods, humming absently, and pulls a … gun? … out of the safe. Eliza isn’t good at guns, but it’s long and it’s got a curving bit sticking down in the middle, and that’s a probably a sight or something on top. It is also hot pink.  


“What,” Burr says flatly.  


“Not exactly well camouflaged,” Laurens admits, “But she _is_ a fully functional AR-15. Takes 5.56×45mm NATO, which should be handy given who’s invaded us.” He does some arcane thing involving taking the gun apart and putting it back together, and pulls a case thing out of the safe. “Waddya think, Peggy, is she your color?”  
Peggy looks up from the map. She blinks when she sees the gun, and her eyes go wide. She whistles.  


“Is that a gun?” Laurens rolls his eyes, nodding. “It’s pink,” Peggy says, impressed. “I think I’ve used a gun like that before, but _that_ one wasn’t pink.” Peggy’s got her intrigued face on as she saunters round the table. Even Hamilton is watching now. “I want to _shoot_ it.”  


“You’ll have plenty of chance when we get there,” Laurens says, and Peggy sobers at the reminder of what, exactly, she’ll be shooting at. Who. Laurens starts putting the weapon in the case.  


“How many of those do you have?” Hamilton asks. Eliza turns. Surely he doesn't think they're fancy toys, not now. But no, his face is merely terrifyingly intent.  


“Only got three more of these,” Laurens says, which is hardly an ‘only’, “But I’ve got a bolt-action rifle and a pair of matched revolvers. My father thought they would be educational.” He shrugs, handing Peggy the pink gun’s case. “We’ll probably be mostly fighting with stolen weapons, but we need something to start with. You have a preference?” Hamilton walks over to the cabinet to look over his options.  


Eliza goes back to packing her first-aid kits, trying to ignore the guns. She can’t avoid noticing that Lafayette picks one up quite calmly when they arrive with the General, but she _can_ keep herself busy enough not to think about it.  
Someone’s going to have to try to pick up all the pieces when the soldiers come home broken.  
Eliza is not looking forward to it.  
  



	11. Rendevous

“Blindfolds!” Mulligan announces, pulling a strip of white cloth from one of his scrap bags. “No-one must see the elusive teleporter!” He’s half-joking, but only half. Lafayette chuckles, grabbing one of the blindfolds for themself. 

“Um,” Hamilton says. Lafayette looks over; he’s holding one of the blindfolds and looking at it dubiously. “Is this supposed to protect their identity?” Oh, _merde_ , Hamilton’s a telepath. That-has-got-to-be-really-inconvenient, for one thing he probably can’t play games that require not seeing other people’s cards without accidentally cheating unless the other players have really good shielding skills, that would actually be a really good way to practice shielding- 

“I’ll text them,” Mulligan says, and bumps Lafayette with his shoulder as he walks to the other side of the room, startling Lafayette out of their frantic over-thinking. Lafayette is going to miss him. They turn back to the others. 

“Awkward,” Peggy remarks. It is, a little. 

“I’m not _trying_ to be inconvenient,” Hamilton says, “It’s just that people _think_ , and my shielding isn’t by any means perfect.” Burr, behind him, rolls his eyes. 

Lafayette busies themself figuring out how to blindfold the General without removing his glasses. It is a good distraction. The General puts up with their fussing. Mulligan comes back over, waving his phone absently. 

“Got you sorted, Hamilton,” he says. Hamilton looks up hopefully. He’s twisting the blindfold between his hands. “You go first, with, say, some Schuylers, who are thinking very loudly about something else.” Mulligan glances over at the Schuylers, “You up for that? They can do about three people at a go.” The Schuylers nod obligingly. 

“I’m _sure_ we can find something else to think about very loudly,” Angelica says. She eyes Hamilton, raising her eyebrows suggestively. Even the General chuckles at that. Laurens and Eliza both blush. Oooooh. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mulligan says, “Ham goes in first and distracted, then heads off. Maybe you can tell Lee you’re all coming?” Hamilton nods. 

“Ham?” Burr’s looking at Mulligan with a — it’s an expression. It’s definitely an expression. Burr is opaque. 

“Oh,” Mulligan says, “Sorry. Is it alright if I call you that?” 

“Huh?” Hamilton says, looking from Burr to Mulligan blankly. Burr sighs. “Oh, I don’t notice what people call me,” Hamilton says, “Except in text or over the phone. So call me whatever.” Burr rubs his face. 

“O—kay,” Mulligan says, shooting Lafayette the look that says ‘This child requires your protection’. “Anyway! Form up — and please try not to die.” There is a long awkward moment. Everyone sorts themselves into groups. (Hamilton ends up with Angelica and Eliza, Lafayette with Peggy and Laurens. This leaves Burr with the General.) Mulligan goes around checking blindfolds and giving good-bye hugs. He offers one to Burr, who shakes his head and holds out a hand instead. Mulligan shakes it, and does the same with the General. He leaves Lafayette for last. 

They have to make themself let go. 

*** 

Lafayette’s never been to Genosha before, but it’s obvious when they arrive. They light changes, and the air smells different. Full of green and growing things. Full of life and potential. Mulligan’s house always smells like baking. This is different. 

Lafayette’s timer buzzes, and they take off their blindfold. Mulligan’s gone. 

“We’re clear,” they call, “ _Allons-y_!” 

“All here?” General Washington looks around, counting. “Six, and Hamilton went on ahead. Let’s move.” Lafayette takes a couple bags and a box from Peggy, and follows Angelica. Actually, they’re following the path Angelica has broken through the bushes. She runs back and forth, carrying less but moving it faster. Efficiency. 

“Lafayette?” 

“Yes, General?” Lafayette steps under a tree, out of Angelica’s way, so they can look back at the General. 

“Are you a mutant?” The General’s opaque glasses make his expression difficult to read, but his forehead is wrinkled. 

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette says. The General’s forehead relaxes somewhat. “I have a mutation somewhat like Wolverine’s, sir. Claws and self healing.” They grin. “I am very tough.” The General chuckles. 

“I’m glad, son,” he says. Lafayette blinks, feeling their lips twist upward. Then the General frowns, and Lafayette’s heart drops clear into their boots. “Kid?” The General tips his head at Lafayette in … apology? 

Oh! It is only _gender_ that is making him upset. Gender is always upsetting. 

“No, no, it is alright, ‘son’ is fine,” Lafayette says, and almost drops the box in their effort to make soothing gestures. The General chuckles. Heat rises in Lafayette's face and ears, and they fumble the box back into a tighter grip. “I’ll just — just,” _sacre bleu_ , “Go,” they manage, “Sir.” They hear laughter behind them as they hurry away. It’s worth getting slapped in the face by a few branches to avoid having to try to explain their gender to the General. Who had just called them ‘son’. 

The messy forest full of strange trees gives way to brush and wildflowers. Lafayette follows Angelica’s path without difficulty here. The pitted road at the edge of the field doesn’t hold a trail as well as wildflowers. Lafayette looks at it dubiously. If they don’t figure out which way to go by themself, Lafayette will have to wait for someone to catch up. And then they will tease them. 

Ugh, _friends._

Lafayette steps out into the road, alert for any kind of vehicle. They look left, to where the sun is setting. Ugh, timezones. Wait, that means right is east, and the drop point is west of the town. Lafayette looks right. 

The town isn’t far. It takes Lafayette perhaps a minute to reach the first building. They are walking past an abandoned gas station when the flash of bright color catches their eye. Lafayette turns to look. Is that one of Lee’s soldiers, come out to meet them? 

It isn’t. On the wall of the next building, a poster still holds some of its original coloring. Lafayette walks toward it, trying to figure out what is used to show. They stop dead. 

One figure stands proudly with one foot on the back of another. The crouching figure wears the brightly colored skin suit the _old_ government made Mutates wear. The words along the bottom read KEEP GENOSHA GREAT. 

Lafayette manages to put their load down before they throw up.


	12. A Real Nice Declaration

Charles Lee is disappointing. Not that Laurens knows a lot about _real_ militaries, but Lee has all the charisma of a potato. A moldy potato. Laurens lurks in the back of the room behind the General. Lee’s people bustle around. Most of them have their shoulders up around their ears. And, ooh, that folder just got passed around three people without ever being opened. 

“Thank you for holding things together, General Lee,” the General says, because apparently Lee’s a general, “You told Ms. Schuyler you had a hundred eighty soldiers here?” Lee nods without asking which Schuyler. “How many civilians?” Lee blinks. 

“I don’t believe it’s my duty to keep track of civilians, General,” Lee says, “I leave that to civilian leaders.” The aides freeze behind Lee, clutching their pointless papers to their chests. Except the radio operator, who actually has work. 

“In that case, General Lee,” the General’s voice is level. Laurens straightens his back and glances at Hamilton for a cue. _Not yet,_ Hamilton’s voice echoes between his ears, _We’re waiting._ “Introduce me to the local civilian leader.” 

“There isn’t one, General Washington,” Lee says, “The civilians are completely disorganized.” The General stares at him for a long moment. The radio operator’s mutters become loud in the little silence. 

“Moving South South West, 40 kilometers per hour,” she says. 

The General ignores her. _Wait for it waitforitwaitforitwaaaaaiiiiiit._ Hamilton is practically vibrating. 

“In that case,” the General says, “ _Hamilton!_ ” 

“Ready, sir!” Hamilton snaps the Genoshan salute, fist to heart. 

“Go out, leave Burr your notes, and _find me a fucking civilian leader!_ ” 

“May I recruit Ms. Schuyler, sir?” Hamilton doesn’t specify which one, but he doesn’t have to. Eliza makes friends everywhere she goes. 

“If she feels she isn’t needed elsewhere,” the General says, waving Hamilton away. He vanishes. “General Lee,” the General says, “When you swore your oath, you swore to protect and preserve the citizens of Genosha. That requires knowing who, and _where_ , they are. I commend your efforts to rescue you what could of your battalion.” There’s a ‘but’ hanging in the air. Burr pauses with his pen hovering over the paper of Hamilton’s notebook. 

“Sir?” Lafayette stands in the open doorway. Laurens breathes out. Burr puts his pen down. “Peggy has found a video she wants you to see.” 

*** 

“We,” the woman on the screen says, “Have been invaded. Foreign soldiers are stationed on our soil without the consent of our government. The sovereignty of our nation has been ignored and denied. Our attempts to end this peacefully have been ignored. Citizens of Genosha, we are at war.” She takes a deep, slow breath, glancing down at the papers she is holding. Her hands shake. She looks something like Angelica.

“This is not a war of conquest. This is a war for our independence. Citizens, our enemy is not our genotypical siblings; our enemies are the soldiers occupying our home, and, most of all, the governments who sent them.” She glances to the side, eyes wide and tense. 

“Fellow citizens, we urge you to oppose this invasion in any way you can. We know that not all Genoshans can fight. If you are pregnant, ill, or have small children to protect, contact an immigration professional or a member of the Proud Siblings. We are trying to construct safe havens for non-combatants. Our enemies have already proven that they will attack civilians.” She looks directly at the camera. 

“We are fighting for our future, friends, but we are also fighting for our lives. The price we—”

The woman is cut off by a voice from off-screen. “They’re coming!” 

The video wobbles as a third voice yells, “Post it, post it!” The screen cuts to You-Tube’s tiles of ‘other videos you might like’. Laurens stares at them for a long moment, trying to figure out why a video with a chibi anime pope is recommended. 

“Well,” the General says, standing up, “Gentlemen—,” and then, correcting himself, “— Soldiers. We are at war.” He looks around. Peggy’s stolen an abandoned house’s living room, and, between the General’s band and Lee’s staff, there isn’t a lot of space. Laurens backs up, trying to wiggle himself into the next room. Lafayette squirms into the space he’s vacated, and the General steps forward. “General Lee,” Lee stands, white faced and trembling. “Gather your soldiers. Where is a space large enough for everyone?” 

“The high-school has an auditorium, sir,” one of Lee’s staff offers. The General nods. 

“Let us gather there, then.” 

***

There are nearly two hundred people in the old high-school auditorium, but they seem small and scattered. Laurens, leaning against the back wall, watches Peggy set up the projector. She’s found a car battery somewhere and hooked it up. The stage’s ratty curtain distorts the image, and she glares at it. 

“Just get audio,” the General tells her. She nods and ducks under the desk thing — sound booth? Whatever. After a moment of struggling, she pops up again. Another miscellaneous collection of people wander in. This group isn’t in uniform. They are more cohesive than several of the groups of soldiers have been. Ah, there’s a Grandmother. All is explained. 

“We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Peggy is saying into a microphone as she fidgets with some dials with her other hands, “That all men _and women_ ,” her voice booms suddenly, filling the auditorium, “ARE CREATED EQUAL.” Everyone jumps and stares around frantically. Laurens laughs. Peggy turns the dials enough that her voice is only an appropriate level of loud for the room, “And endowed with certain inalienable rights, among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” She pauses, glancing up at the General. He is definitely not laughing. He is too dignified for laughter. There is a long and awkward pause. The General is reaching for his belt-radio when Hamilton and Eliza slip in with a handful of twitchy teenagers. They huddle along the back wall with Laurens. 

Laurens glances sideways and down at Hamilton. He looks good from this angle, too. Not that he ever stays still long enough for Laurens to draw him. Hamilton glances up at him, smiling, and Laurens turns away. Telepath. His face burns fit to light his hair on fire. 

Peggy starts the video.


	13. Check It

Mother declared war. Mother was the _Mayor,_ Mother was _safe,_ Mother was insulated from her children’s radical politics by the institution she served in. Mother wasn’t supposed to be the highest government official not implicated by Magneto’s world-conquest plot. Alleged world-conquest plot. Eliza twists her fingers together.

“She’ll be all right,” Hamilton whispers, taking her hand. “Your mother’s a terror, and she’s got her crew with her.” Eliza nods, tense and not believing a word of it. It’s a comfort, still.

The General lets the silence sit for a moment. Then he starts walking down one of the aisles.

“Citizens of Genosha,” he says, “We are at war.” He looks around, scanning the audience. He looks straight at Eliza, then moves on. “Many of us remember when we first came here, to a country that promised us safety and freedom. Safety from assault and freedom to be ourselves.” He pauses again, and takes a deep breath before going on. “That promise has been broken.” The audience murmurs, shifts. Eliza realizes that she is squeezing Hamilton’s hand harder than can be comfortable, and releases it. “Our enemies have come to _us_. They want us dead, they want us _eradicated_.” The General reaches the stage, and vaults onto it in a casual display of physical prowess. He turns to face his audience.

“We are no longer safe in the country built for our safety,” he says, “We are under attack, and we are afraid.” He look around again, eyes intent. “Friends, we are _outgunned!_ ”  There’s a generalized chorus of ‘But’s from the audience. Eliza thinks her own voice is part of it.

“But!” General Washington’s voice rides over everyone else’s. “ _They_ are afraid of _us_. And they are right to be.” His smile shows all his teeth. They are startlingly silver, glinting and sharp. “We are strong. We are powerful. They have attacked us on our home ground. We are not alone in their back alleys, we are here and we are together. We fight for our children and the futures we will make for them!”

“Yes,” Laurens says, from Hamilton’s other side. He’s not the only one.

“We have them _outmanned,_ ” the General says, corrects himself, “Out numbered!”

“Yeah!” Hamilton yells. Eliza and Laurens join him a moment late.

“Out-planned!”

“YEAH!”

“We’ve gotta make an all-out stand,” the General says, “Defend _our_ native land!”


End file.
